The Art Of
by Virago
Summary: Chance meetings through out time changes everything in her world. SxK.


_**The Art Of...**_

_A/N: Umm... yeah... I wrote this AGES ago and though my beta's (she rocks!) computer seems to not like her at the moment I thought I would just post the un-beta-ed copy then, when I get the beta-ed copy just replace this one! Surprises! This one is het! Gooo me! PS. To all of my other fans, I haven't forgotten about you! I'm trying REALLY hard to write, but since the accidents (there's more than one in there peoples!) I haven't really been able to concentrate (I think my muse was killed in the second one..o.O). This one was written Waay before the first crash! Sorry!_

_Disclaimer: They are not mine; I'm just abusing them for the moment. ;p_

The first time she saw him was at the park, cradled in the dark protruding roots of a large oak. In his long slender fingers he held a thick book with no name on the cover or binding. For every page that he turned, she blinked, and for every blink he looked up and stared for the span of three second at the children playing in the sand, or swinging the monkey bars, before once more returning to read the immense volume of forgotten lore.

It took her five minutes of watching him for her to realize that his eyes traveled the path of one child only. A small girl, with light brown hair tied into pig-tails and wide green eyes. She seemed to not be able to sit still, first in the sand box, then on the jungle gym, only to move to the swings, then to the slides, then to the monkey bars, to end right back at the sand box where she had started. She could not have been any more than five.

The second time that she saw him was at a corner coffee shop. Coming in with a perfectly tailored designer suit that she knew not the name of, his long ebony hair tied in a low pony tail that traveled down his back and stopped just above his waist. The child that she saw him looking at was walking slightly behind him, holding his hand in one of her own. He moved with liquid grace, as if he had not a bone in his body as the small girl detached herself from his hand and ran to the display of various treats and sandwiches.

He ordered a double hot-chocolate with whip-cream topping and a coffee. The coffee was complete without cream or sugar; just dark, strong, deep, and mysterious. After the child pointed to something that she could not see from the angle that she sat at, he nodded and then ordered a banana muffin with two biscotti; one plain and one with chocolate covering. He then handed the steaming cup of hot chocolate to the girl and grabbed his own cup, gathering up the plate of treats as he turned to face her. His dark blue eyes, so dark that they almost looked black, widened ever so slightly at her before he tipped his head to the side in a greeting and offered her a small smile. She came to the conclusion that he was even more handsome when he smiled.

She felt herself blush and stammered out the morning greeting.

He let out a small chuckle as he walked by the table that she sat on, "So shy, miko?"

His voice was like his coffee; dark, strong, deep, and mysterious, it was almost enough for her to actually miss his words. She blinked and quickly turned to face him, her metal chair legs making a grating sound on the titled floor that put her teeth on edge.

The small girl spoke, "Who was that, Daddy?"

He set the plate of treats on one of the tables a few away from her and ran a hand down the child's hair, but otherwise said nothing.

She thought over what he had called her for the next four days.

The third time she saw him he was walking down the street, once more in a designer suit that she couldn't name, his hand held a black cell phone pressed against his ear. The child was not with him.

The fourth time she saw him he was walking out of a used book store, holding the door open for her with his big, yet slender hands, his fingers gripping the worn wood of the door frame almost elegantly. Once more he tipped his head to the side in his greeting to her and gave her one of his small smiles; just a slight upturn of the right side of his lips. This time she returned his smile with one of her own.

The fifth time she saw him she was at the bus stop, waiting in the rain because her old beat-up car had finally called it quits on her. She didn't mind taking the bus. It saved her money on gas, yet she couldn't keep the chill of the down pour from seeping into her skin and bones. He had pulled up next to her in a black SUV, rolled down the automatic window and asked her where she was going.

When she had told him he nodded and told her to climb in. She was hesitant at first, but soon the weather out ruled her brain and she was grateful. The child was sleeping in the back seat, her long knee length socks and black shoes was all she could see under a large coat that she was curled up in.

They road in silence for a few moments before she asked him about what he had called her and he had replied with a short sound of amusement. "Is that not what you are?" he asked.

She smiled at him, studying him out of the corner of her eye. Yes, that is was they used to call her, oh so very long ago, she had told him. But what she wanted to know was how he had known to call her that name that stirred so many memories inside of her heart.

He had looked to her, just a slight glance that made her think that he was raising his eyebrow at her without actually physically doing so. Instead of yelling at him for being vague she had told him that he was attractive and when he dropped her off upon her doorstep he had told her that she was also. He had told her that he had always thought so, even when traveling with his half-brother. Then he drove off, without another word.

She had once more stood in the rain while her heart cried out for friends and a love that was forever lost to her. She had realized now why she was so comfortable with him, why she felt drawn to him.

For he was the only remaining thing of her past.

The sixth time that she saw him she walked straight up to him on the crowded street. He didn't seem surprised to see her there, yet when she had taken his hands in her own, slight astonishment passed through his eyes, so different that what she remembered them to be. She had pulled up the sleeves of his suit jacket and ran her fingers upon the smooth pale skin of his writs only to drop them with mild disappointment radiating from her being. She then reached up and brushed those fingers across each of his cheeks then his forehead. "You are him," she had asked him, "aren't you?" The doubt that she felt ran clearly as spring water in her voice.

He gave her no answer, and she expected him not to. What she also didn't expect was for him to take one of her hands, turning it palm up, and taking out a pen. After he had walked off, leaving her still standing on busy sidewalk, looking to what he had written on the skin of her hand.

The seventh time that she saw him she was on his door step, following the address that he had given her. It had taken her days to work up the courage to come to him; she found that she just could not NOT see him. He had answered the door, for once not wearing some type of expensive suit, but even in his tan baggy pants and white shirt she thought herself still insignificant before the power that he held. Yet she still crossed over into in his domain and fell into his touch. She fell into the sadness of the things that he awakened within her heavy heart; she fell into his loneliness and pain.

The eighth time that she saw him was in the morning, the sun cascading around his now black hair like a caress. She was still nestled into the embrace of his arms and she found herself heartbroken to be there, but not strong enough to turn away.

He had a daughter, but not one of his own blood; so much like the small girl that had followed him unconditionally over five hundred years ago. So what was the story behind this one, had he picked up another helpless stray? Had he also brought her back to life as he did with his daughter before her? She wanted to ask him. She wanted to know who the woman with light brown hair and large vibrant green eyes in the picture frames that lined the wall near the steps was. She wanted to know about the wedding pictures that held him and the beautiful woman. She wanted to know where the human woman was now. The beautiful happy human woman that was the small girl's true mother, but he was not the father.

So she asked, and he never answered, instead he had rolled half over her. His soft velvet lips claiming hers in a searing kiss that made her body tremble and her soul weep for things lost. She wanted him to take that pain from her, wanted him to wrapped her completely in his warmth and make her forget everything that she knew.

His hands moved in light strokes down her neck and collar bone, his leg falling upon one of her own, his body moving with such heartbreaking bliss that she was left longing for him even though he lay right next to her. And when he completely nestled in-between her legs and fell into her like he had been there along she could not stop the tears that ran down her flushed cheeks. She wanted him to take those tears from her, hide them away so well that she hoped that they would never return. Instead, he kissed her softly once more and moved slow and sweet within her until she lay breathless under him.

She wanted...

Wanted...

She wanted so much from him.

And she wanted absolutely nothing from him.

The ninth time that she saw him he was in his kitchen, making breakfast. The small girl was sitting at the table, her tiny stocking feet kicking back and forth in the air as she drank her orange juice and nibbled on her toast. The thought of him becoming domesticated brought a smile to her face.

He told her to sit and so she did, next to his daughter that was not of his blood. The child had smiled at her, a large radiant smile that would have put the sun to shame and told her that her Auntie was picking her up and taking her to school today. She didn't know how to reply to that so she offered the girl one of her own large smiles.

The tenth time that she saw him she was moving her things into his house, unable to bear the thought of him but unable to live without him. The child would help with the small, light boxes that only she could carry.

The eleventh time that she saw him she was laying on the couch, staring at the movie that she really wasn't watching. His arms were wrapped around her, holding her close to his chest as she breathed in the soul wrenching scent of him, her heart crying out as it died just slightly more each time she inhaled.

That night, when he was inside of her and was arching into his body as she withered beneath him a piece of her heart shattered and melted upon the caress of his lips.

After that she kept counting the times that she saw him, but no longer where or what he was doing. She also started counting the times small fragments of her heart that died whenever she was with him.

The last time she saw him and when the last part of her heart died she was laying in the large tub that graced his bathroom. She realized with a light sense of detachment that she was getting his wonderful pristine white floor dirty, but she was so sleepy she couldn't bring herself to care too much about it. The water around her had long since cooled and was tinged with a pink that became darker as the liquid caressed her lower arm and hand that was floating just above the surface. Her other arm was draped over the side of the marble tub, her ears concentrating on the steady dripping sound that came from her finger tips.

She was tired, oh so tired, and all she wanted to do was to close her eyes, but she wanted to see him. She wanted him to yell at her, for him to tell her what a weak and pathetic human she was.

Yet when he came, when he walked into his bathroom and moved across the tile, careful to avoid the crimson mess that she was making he just looked to her with his emotionless eyes. Eyes that, for the first time since she had seen him at the coffee shop, looking too human for her, until now was the beautiful shade of molten gold. His ears where once more pointed and no longer rounded, the magenta strips above each amber eye and two slashes of color upon each check bone made her heartache worse than ever before. Even the symbol for his house, his family, the blue crescent moon once more graced his forehead. The only thing, the _only thing_ that kept him looking like he did all those years ago was the blackness of his long hair.

And she found herself hating him for that.

Then he spoke, his mouth forming words that seemed to take forever for her buzzing ears to hear, "Is this what you want, Kagome?"

She realized with a sense of overwhelming horror that she didn't know what she wanted but she was too tired and her heart too completely dead for her to put a voice to her thoughts.

So he wrote about her. He grasped a dark pen in his hand and opened the large brown book with no title on the cover or binding and immortalized her story as he had done to others before her.

_**owari**_


End file.
